The Final Battle
by Fruitiest of Mallards
Summary: A hurricane afflicts Norrisville, and a plan by McFist and Viceroy finally works all too well. With Howard away at chess camp, a sixteen year old Randy must face the Sorcerer alone. /AU. Futurefic.
1. Chapter 1

**PART ONE: THE FINAL BATTLE.**

* * *

Sixteen year old Randall Josephine Cunningham ate his breakfast with the speed and stomach of a horse.

His mother Ava sat across from him, her purple hair hanging loose, greenish hazel eyes watching him. She had nothing better to do; she didn't have to leave until...soon, actually, he realized with a glance at the clock on the wall. He understood her boredom, the look on her face resembled how he felt at school. Luckily it was summer, June, in fact. They were both still drowsy from just waking up. His breakfast was cereal, he'd poured a lot of it into his bowl, hungry as he was. He had a glass of orange juice, too, he downed it pretty quickly.

Ava inquired, "Anything planned for today, or am I forgetting something?" Her violet painted nails tapped the kitchen tabletop idly.

His mom was a busy woman. She worked at a convenience store close by. Her coworkers were her friends, she invited them over sometimes. She'd gotten this job right before he'd started high school, spending most of the day and night at the store, leaving Randy home alone. She usually spent a short time doing things around the house before heading for bed. This meant that Randy had a lot of free time to himself around the house. It was convenient, considering certain things.

"Nah, not really," he answered, "Howard and I haven't come up with anything. Maybe I won't even see him today."

She smiled, that small smile she sometimes did when he talked about his best friend, Howard Weinerman. The two were close as peas in a pod, Howard's own mom liked to say. They'd known each other since they were five years old. Randy had clung to him as a way to cope with the loss of his father at the time. Needless to say, his efforts weren't fruitless. He gained a lifelong bud _and_ slowly nearly forgot his dad ever existed. Mr. Cunningham hadn't died, nor had his parents divorced, he simply...disappeared, when his son was four. Randy didn't like to think about it.

"Well, I hope you find a way to occupy yourself while I'm gone." She said.

He slurped the last contents of his bowl, "I'm sure I will," he nodded. He and Ava were a lot alike, and not only in looks. Well, Randy had blue eyes, but he had the same color hair. He liked to think they were both similar in the face as well; he couldn't recall his father well enough to judge. There were pictures. He avoided them. They shared a quirky sense of humor and expressiveness, or so people had told him all his life. If he paid attention he thought he could see it, on the other hand he was so used to her he didn't really know the difference. For once he didn't immediately move to the living room to watch television, he felt like spending time with her.

"Anything new lately?" He ventured.

"Nope," she shrugged, "Work, as usual."

That was all she needed to say, really. He fiddled his fingers.

"Uh..."

She raised her eyebrows. She knew full well he didn't know what to say and that he didn't feel like talking. He was compelled. Then again, if she wasn't starting conversation, either...

He came up with something finally, "I'll be seventeen next month."

"Yes, you will," she agreed, "Are you sure you don't want to start looking for a job?"

He blinked.

"Oh. Yeah. I can try, maybe. I haven't thought about it."

"Whenever you're ready."

"'Kay." He muttered. He hated discussing _those_ kinds of stuff. He knew he had to, though. It was an inevitability.

"Love you, hun," she told him, standing up, chair creaking. Her body language implied she was going to gather her purse, her routine when getting ready for work. She wore a dark blue shirt with a nametag. She disappeared to presumably her bedroom. He found out his assumptions had been correct when she came back with her bag slung over her shoulder, "You don't need anything?"

"No, I'm cool." He declined.

In all honesty he was starting to want her to leave. He had things to do, not that she knew. He heard Ava grab her keys out of the keybowl on the living room coffee table; soon after the front door clicked shut. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He was home alone, like he'd often been during the last two years and a half. He reached into his jeans pocket—yep, the Ninja's Mask was still in there, safe and sound. He'd recognize the distinct feel of its material anywhere.

Randy had an important duty which he upheld, unknown to anyone except for his best friend Howard. He'd kept this secret since he was fourteen, a freshman in high school. He was the Ninja of Norrisville. Norrisville was the name of the famous town he was born in and lived in since he could remember. It was in Louisiana, Vermilion parish. Randy was the current Ninja, there'd been many Ninjas before him, and—another thing he didn't like to think about—there would probably be many more after him. He didn't like the idea of giving up the title and responsibilities of the Ninja; it depressed him. Oh well. He'd deal with it when the time came.

Centuries before, a battle between the original Ninja and an evil, monstrous being called the Sorcerer took place. He was the Ninja's complete opposite; vile. The Ninja was victorious and sealed the Sorcerer away in an underground prison in a region which would eventually become the town of Norrisville. After the construction of Norrisville High, his school, decades ago, right above the Sorcerer's prison, teens had been bestowed the honor of being the Ninja. He was the most recent. He wasn't alone in his endeavors: he had his friend Howard, his sole confidant (he actually wasn't supposed to have any, but, uh...) and a mystical, powerful conscious book by name of the Ninja's Namakon. It was his teacher and it healed his wounds after battles with the Sorcerer's monsters and his archenemy's robots. He didn't usually get injured, but it did happen every now and then. Bruises, mostly.

He had...trouble...with the lessons the Namakon gave every once in a while, although these days it was easier than it was in the past. It was hard, but he stopped and caught himself when he conjured over-complicated interpretations of straightforward advice. Because that's what it was, in the end: right to the point. That's normally what the Namakon turned out to be. He was just a dumbbell. He hated to admit it. He'd pulled some _very_ stupid stunts before he mellowed.

The Sorcerer had influence over the outside world from his jail still, in the form of a green gas that transformed particularly miserable—sad, angry, or anything negative—people into aggressive creatures. The majority of his victims were Norrisville High students, those were relatively easy because Randy knew how to turn them back to normal—destroying the item they held most dear. Sometimes the item wasn't an item at all, it depended on the person transformed. The gas infiltrated the school through the piping system. Those cases were ninety-nine percent of the time easy enough to figure out. It was the robots which were consistent (daily) issues.

Randy also had an archenemy—two, technically—in the form of the local town billionaire, Hannibal McFist, and his mad scientist henchman, Willem Viceroy III. McFist was beloved as a philanthropist, Randy couldn't out him if he tried. No one would believe it. Viceroy built violent robots with only one intent: to kill the Ninja. Randy. Not that they knew his secret identity—he preferred to keep it that way—but it was bad they could get to him whatsoever. They knew all they had to do was attack innocent civilians, and the Ninja would come to their rescue as fast as he could. It was who the Ninja was.

Randy's time as the Ninja began around the same time his mother had gotten her job at the convenience store. The day before freshman year.

Was the car gone from the driveway?

He checked the window. It was. Dark storm clouds loomed overhead, it was already beginning to sprinkle.

Time to go.


	2. Chapter 2

Randy checked the news channel on TV. He usually did before he departed to do his Ninja-ing, to make sure he knew what was going on if whatever it was indeed was being reported.

Something was wrong, but it wasn't robots wreaking destruction.

The horrible weather.

It was the middle of summer, this kind of weather wasn't normal in Louisiana. Sure, there was summer rainfall, but nothing like this, seeming so potentially violent. Randy lived in Vermilion Parish, near the coast. It certainly wasn't uncommon to experience ocean-related cold or heat waves. This was much bigger, and though people carried on with their lives, it was on the back of nearly everyone's mind: Hurricane Fletcher. The doomsayers on the Internet worried it would be the next Katrina. Some folks had already packed up and left Norrisville, which wouldn't be directly _hit_ by the hurricane itself but would definitely be feeling its effects. Like flooding and tree-overpowering winds.

Some people felt they could deal with the side effects and remained. Randy's mother was one of them. Their relatives were staying, as well. Other towns and cities closer or even in the actual area where Fletcher would touch ground were vacated by now. People weren't playing games or stalling with these things after what happened not so long ago. It was the year 2016 and even if Randy liked to joke that it still felt like 2012 was yesterday he couldn't deny things were moving forward and wouldn't ever stop. The forecast wasn't the only depressing thing the news had to announce. Peoples' power in their homes were going out. Plumbing was awry. Things were generally going badly.

He had a feeling his mom would make some comment whenever she returned home about regretting staying, but then again, where could they go? All their relatives lived near them, they couldn't try and stay over at their places; there was no escaping the hurricane. They'd just have to grit their teeth and endure through the ordeal. He hoped that the power wouldn't go off in _their_ house...

He didn't stick around long enough to find out if it did. He grabbed his own set of house-keys from the keybowl in the living room, opened the front door, locked it behind him, and set out to patrol the town as the Ninja of Norrisville. He didn't pull on the mask _right_ away, but when he was in an empty alleyway in the middle of downtown, having walked all the way there (his house wasn't too far away from Norrisville High and downtown) and he suddenly heard people screaming about attacking robots—the way the local authorities had advised everyone to, so that the Ninja or the police could overhear and act—he yanked the black piece of mystical fabric over his head and the red flashing transformation of sorts began.

The Namakon, which he'd been holding in his hands, went into hammerspace easily. He wasn't sure how it did that, but then, it didn't matter.

The robot resembled a dog. It acted like one, too, barking, jaws lashing out and clamping over hydrants and peoples' cars, wrecking them effortlessly. It didn't maul anybody. Terrified them, yes, a little deliberately sometimes. It had to be seen to be believed. Now that Randy was thinking about it, it was strange that all the violent robots that came after humans to draw his attention never actually _killed_ anyone. That was kind of a morbid thought—what, did he _want_ them to?—so he brushed it aside.

"Hey, ugly!" He yelled, the Mask deepening his voice to a baritone that was _really _not his. He was sixteen and growing into a man and it wasn't like he had a high-pitched voice. The Mask's masking just made him sound that different. It was to hide his identity. It'd been that way since he was fourteen.

The robot dog ceased its rampage, turning to Randy. With his enhanced vision—long story, happened about a year ago—he could see its optics scan him, probably identifying him as its number one priority target.

It charged.

Randy prepared a Tengu Fireball, and aimed. It worked like a charm.

Crashing against the robo-dog's face in a fantastic burst of flame, the dog shook its head violently, knocking a fire hydrant loose, water spraying everywhere. It wasn't coughing from the smoke of the fire, like it would be if it were biological. It wasn't, though, so Randy felt no guilt slicing it to bits with his katana. One robot down. Relatively simple. It was like that sometimes. Some days, McFist and Viceroy just didn't have anything special for him. The daredevil in him found those days boring. The logical side of him was thankful that there wasn't anything more to it today.

Were there any others?

The screaming had stopped. Still, that didn't mean there wasn't any somewhere. It could just mean that whoever was screaming was out of his earshot. He would patrol the town. Being a native Norrisvillian, he knew the place like the back of his hand. It took a couple hours but he made the rounds easily. No terrorized civilians. No big scary Viceroy-made robots. Maybe he'd have the rest of the day off. As he found another alley to de-suit in, he thought about his biffer, Howard. He was going to chess camp for the summer starting this afternoon. It was still morning now…had to be at least eleven. His mom went to work at seven thirty a.m.

He wanted to say goodbye to Howard before he left.

* * *

It was actually Howard who rang Randy first, "Hey, Cunningham. You wanna come over to my house and play video games?"

"In celebration of chess camp? Sure!"

"There is _nothing_ to celebrate about…" Howard grumbled over Randy's cell.

"Ya know ya love it," Randy sleazed, "Be over in a bit. Got some Ninja-ing done this morning."

"Tell me about it later. And if the stupid book ganks our cheese, I'm blaming you!"

He always did. Oh well.

* * *

At Howard's place hours later, video games beaten, snacks eaten, things were getting emotional. For sixteen year old boys, anyway.

"Hey, so, uh, I'll be on my way." Said Howard. "Everything's all ready to go."

"Yeah," Randy agreed, "I'll miss you, dude."

"Aww, don't get sappy on me!" Howard waved his hands in front of him as if to fend off the mushiness.

Randy reassured his best friend's manliness, "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Are you ready, Howie?" Mort Weinerman called from the front hallway.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'."

After Howard was out the door, Mrs. Weinerman walked up from behind Randy and rested a hand on his shoulder, "You've always been such a good friend to my little boy. Thank you."

Randy was surprised. Then, he smiled at her genuinely. "No problem! You-you're welcome. I wouldn't have it any other way." It was true. One of the truest things he'd ever said. He went outside with her and Heidi and all three of them waved goodbye to the departing son and father.


	3. Chapter 3

It was five in the afternoon. At home alone, Randy snoozed on the couch. Or, tried to.

It was hard to when there were sirens blaring at all hours of the day outside. The hurricane was really turning out to be a big deal. He hoped his mom was alright at work. He ate some leftovers. He watched more T.V., distinctly avoiding the news channel this time. He felt guilty suddenly. What if someone needed his help? What if he _had_ missed something? He switched the channel. Nothing was happening. The local news always broadcast robot or monster attacks regardless of what they were supposed to be doing before, in the scrolling ribbons on the bottom of the screen. If it wasn't being shown on the screen, nothing was happening. Norrisville news crews were uncannily speedy about getting visuals on events.

Absolutely nothing robot or monster related.

He glanced at the Namakon, which was placed on the couch beside him.

Randy used to think the Ninja's Namakon was called the NinjaNomicon, until it finally corrected him a few months ago. Someone else came up with 'NinjaNomicon,' for the ridiculous reason that they just couldn't spell right. The Messenger. Finding out about him was a big shocker, too, but then, it made sense. Randy had always wondered how the Namakon and the Ninja's Mask ended up in his bedroom that day. He guessed he had been irresponsible for leaving his window open but hey, if it wasn't, would be he who he was today?

So, who was this guy? Obviously he was literally around eight hundred years old. Randy supposed that if the guy wanted to be found, he would be. Otherwise, Randy was S.O.L. finding out about him. Anyway, the Namakon told him that its name came from an old, lost language. Did that mean it wasn't Japanese? But, how did that make any sense? If it wasn't eight hundred years old, too, then what was it—?

Randy jumped when he heard the front door click open. "Mom!" He called.

"Hey, honey!" She answered. She walked to the living room. "How's your day been?"

"It's been alright," he said, "I saw Howard off to camp."

"It amazes me how his parents just let you into their house so often…"

Randy laughed, "We're practically two families in one! Are you kidding me?" His mom and Mrs. Weinerman were friends themselves.

She smiled, "I guess you have a point."

"You didn't have any trouble getting home?"

She sat down next to him. "Oh, no. I'm fine, sweetheart." She was still in her work shirt. "What're you watching?"

"I have no idea." It looked like a cop show.

"Let's go to the news."

He suppressed a frown. "'Kay." Holding the Namakon a little tighter against his side, he pressed the remote buttons.

* * *

The next day his mother woke him. "We've got errands to run," she said, "We need to buy candles, food, batteries, water…" The kinds of things one needed to buy when one lived in times of duress in hurricane country. They had some of these things already, anyone with half a brain in Norrisville did, they just needed to get the last few things. They had to board up the windows, too. The winds would be getting _strong_.

His mom called their relatives: both sets of his grandparents, his uncles, their kids, most older than Randy, to make sure they were alright. They were; they promised to keep in touch if they could. Randy helped his mom with the groceries like any good son would. Sure, he lied to her on a routine basis on where he'd been throughout the day, but that was necessary. He tried not to treat her wrong otherwise.

They did these things _very_ early in the morning before she had to go to work. When they were done she said, "I have to go by my coworker friend Agnis' place and drop off one of the waters we bought, I told her I would bring her some since she can't afford it." He nodded. "Be good. See you when I come home from work. We'll be closing early at three today. Love you." He repeated the last two words diligently in response, going to his room. He really did love her. He just had to lie to her. 'Be good.' Sure, he was _doing_ good, but he wasn't telling her where he was going like she ordered him to when he was fourteen. So technically he wasn't _being_ good.

Hadn't been since he was fourteen. How she never found out by now was a mystery to him. He guessed he was that good of an actor, which contradicted other things he'd done in the past, but…it seemed natural to keep certain things to himself around her. Maybe it was some psychological thing he wasn't clever enough to understand. Who knew. He dug out the Namakon from under his pillows and held it out in front of him, waiting for any possibility of something. It didn't flare.

Which meant no lessons. He was going to Ninja-out and patrol the city, then. They hadn't boarded up the windows yet, that would be later that evening when his mom returned home. He planned to be home himself by then, even it would be earlier than usual. He had a whole morning and early afternoon to himself. Instead of walking like he had the day before he rode his bike, Namakon tucked away in his backpack strapped over his shoulders. He went down every street downtown he could, knowing a robot could strike at any time; they'd been fairly predictable freshman and sophomore year, but nowadays they were getting more erratic.

He was a little bored. This was what he usually did during the day without Howard during the summertime. The last two summers were eventful, that was for certain, but this one seemed more monotonous, aside from the hurricane. He almost hoped something interesting would happen, but interesting usually equaled bad, so never mind that. Once the new school year began he'd be a senior. He and Howard would finally have the social respect they deserved. He grinned at that. He didn't care so much about their social status anymore, it had always been a fun thing to obsess about, coming up with new schemes to gain popularity. Howard, Randy thought, took it much more seriously than Randy did in the present.

Several things occurred at once.

Police sirens sounded, zooming past Randy on his bicycle, who slowed down as law required. Then, a mechanical roar could be heard some ways off, Randy's ears perked and his eyes brightened with alertness. Next…was unexpected. Another robot dog like the one the day previous rounded a street corner and rammed head-on into the police car, jaws clamping around the nose of the vehicle, effectively killing its engine. Randy watched all this with a stunned expression. The robots had _never_ done anything like this before.

A shower of sparks came from the dying engine, the dog continued to chew on it as a panicked-looking policewoman fled the driver's seat. Randy left his bike at the curb and ran to the nearest alleyway, practically shoving on the mask with force. This was bad. More bad than usual. Perhaps it was a one-time thing. Somehow, he doubted it, knowing Viceroy and McFist. He dug the Namakon out of his backpack, it disappeared into a pocket dimension, he assumed, like everything else did until he needed them.

The robot dog went down easily. Randy, as the Ninja, patrolled the town from the rooftops—and found even more of them. One, ripping out an ATM from a bank. Another, damaging water pipes. Electrical poles. Power boxes. More police cars were targeted. It was chaos. Randy didn't know what to make of it. It was beyond befuddling. Then—

_They're targeting infrastructure,_ he realized, having heard the word often enough in one of his classes—he couldn't remember which, it was during freshman year—to know what it meant. A year ago and he wouldn't have been able to figure this out on his own. The robots were deliberately destroying things people needed for their daily lives, which made them miserable. If people were miserable...

Oh, no.


	4. Chapter 4

After the last robot dog, or, Randy hoped it was the last, it was nearing three p.m., he had to start heading home, a paper popped out of its mouth. Randy, curious, picked it up and discovered printed words on it.

_The night awaits_, said the message.

What?

Randy looked around. He pulled the Namakon out of hammerspace and said aloud that he wanted to consult it. If this was some kind of trick, surely it would be able to detect it. If it was an exploding note, Randy was screwed, but he'd have to take that chance, it seemed. His mind was sucked into the Ninja's Namakon, body going limp and eyes becoming glazed. His breath was always shallow when this happened, Howard told him once. That didn't matter to him now.

Randy found himself standing in total darkness.

_THE ENEMY AMBUSHES IN THE MIDNIGHT HOURS._ Said the Namakon suddenly in big bright hiragana. It knew English, of course, but had taken to slowly teaching Randy written Japanese in all its forms when junior year started. Randy already knew spoken Japanese thanks to the Namakon's magic and he could understand it—it  
was the only way he could have communicated with the First Ninja when he'd traveled back in time—but he couldn't read or write any of it. Well, he could, a little, now, but…

"So…I'll have to sneak out of my house during the night?" It dawned on him gradually. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea, but if it was what needed to be done…if he could get past his mother.

* * *

The windows of the Cunningham house had storm shutters. Randy shut the ones in the kitchen while his mom got the ones around the rest of the house. He knew he'd have to open the shutters in his room again that night to get out, and that was the main problem. The shutters would make noise as he opened them. He could only hope that his mom wouldn't overhear. After the chores were done it was dinnertime. They had leftovers, like they often did. After that his mom saw fit to watch the news again and to Randy's dismay, while there were no dog-bots, the weather was growing progressively worse. Well, what did he expect?

He set the alarm clock on his cell phone to ten p.m. He usually went to bed around nine. Still, it didn't hurt to remind himself, even if he couldn't exactly forget. Let no one say he wasn't at least slightly paranoid after all that had happened to him in the past three years. He kissed his mom goodnight at eight thirty, claiming he was tired. She looked at him skeptically, because he rarely went to bed early, but if he said so then it must be true. When did he ever lie to her, he thought sardonically. He laid awake for an hour, the Namakon said nothing to him, and when his alarm finally went off he jumped out of bed, opened the shutters and—

Glanced at his bedroom door. Waited a moment.

Nothing.

He pushed up his window, climbing out into the chilly air, the Namakon's weight tucked under his arm and the Mask in his jeans pocket. This was new to him, and he wasn't sure what to do next. He figured he ought to patrol like he did in the daytime. _Have some common sense, Cunningham,_ he scolded himself, _What else did the message tell you?_ Nothing. It just said that something would happen during the nighttime. Vague, opaque. He was careful of authority, keeping an eye out for cops who would surely ask why a teenage boy was roaming the streets alone at this time, even if they were busy with general mayhem around town.

The trouble with it being night out, Randy grasped, was that there were less people around to give warning when a robot dog came rampaging down the road. Once downtown he slipped on the Ninja's Mask and scaled the side of a building to gain a better view of what he was looking at, which was pretty much everything in sight. It was about an hour later—a grueling search—Randy heard a clamoring some distance off. He followed it and it grew louder with each leap from rooftop to rooftop he took.

* * *

The sleek black limousine was cozy as it ever was.

The aggressive robot outside, which Willem Viceroy III had made himself and could see through the tinted limo windows, didn't glance twice at them. McFist hadn't risked anyone witnessing them, forgoing a person as a chauffeur and using one of his robotic apes. One of Viceroy's robotic apes. He'd designed the things. No use thinking about that at the moment.

The Ninja of Norrisville showed his masked face just as expected. Almost with a dramatic, theatrical flair the slim figure appeared out of the shadows of the edge of the building, true to his title as a...well, ninja, leaping and slamming on the metallic head of Viceroy's killer robot. Seeing this never failed to fill Viceroy with bitterness. _Do you even care how long it took to conceptualize that thing? Not that long at all, I'm a genius, but still._

'Head' smashed in, the robot had a second pair of optics in his chest, cleverly hidden. It used them of course, aiming blasts of toxic fire-breath at the Ninja with deadly accuracy. Viceroy was pleased that the Ninja wasn't too quick for _everything_; he had to stop and block a fuming roar with the broad side of his katana.

They were at a distance but even from here Willem thought he could see the Ninja's gaze narrow, _Where is the center?_ He usually went for that if it could be found. Hm. There was no single center. Different aspects of it were scattered throughout the robot's 'body,' for the simple sake of making life harder for the town's beloved celebrity. After three years of dealing with the confounding hero Viceroy liked to think he knew him on some level. The sides of his lips quirked. It was a purely businesslike relationship.

The Ninja managed to break through the onslaught of flame somehow, it happened so fast Viceroy wasn't sure, running along the flank of the A.I. beast, simultaneously cutting it open with his sword as he did. It was at the last moment that specialized coils shot out from within the confines of the robot, like harbingers of doom, wrapping around the Ninja of Norrisville.

"Excellent."

Viceroy's dark eyes flicked to McFist, sitting beside him, "Just as planned." He agreed.

Hannibal chose not to reply, opening the car door and getting out.

Viceroy did nothing but follow his employer, who waltzed across the street to where the Ninja lay. The bound, short man struggled then seemed to freeze at the sound of footfall. A dark head turned to look at them. It was all slightly surreal to Viceroy. Did the Ninja just _forget_ he had super-strength? Viceroy assumed he did, otherwise he was severely underestimating the human body. But then, who said the Ninja was human anymore? Eight hundred years was a long time indeed.

Hannibal was the epitome of smug, "So, will you finally admit defeat?"

The Ninja glared up at the billionaire defiantly.

Hannibal smirked, "Of course not. Didn't think s—"

"_Silence!_"

Even Viceroy started at the sheer holy fury in the superhero's tone. The Ninja of Norrisville did not often speak. The thunderous voice echoed in the darkness of the night.

Eyebrows risen, mouth a little ajar, Hannibal did not say anything else.

"I know what you are doing, McFist!"

Did he? It wouldn't surprise Viceroy. This was the Ninja. If he said he knew, then he most likely did. He did not strike the mad scientist as a liar.

"And it's not gon—not going to work!"

Viceroy blinked at the stumble. McFist barely even noticed. "Yeah, well, when it's over with we'll see how you feel, Ninja."


	5. Chapter 5

The Ninja's eyes were searing. Viceroy wanted to hit himself. Of course, Hannibal would give them away. Of _course_. Why did he expect anything else from the man? He was impulsive and had little to no self-restraint. Take it personally from Viceroy. He had to deal with the billionaire every day. Across the street was a firehouse. There were also two robot dogs lying dormant, out of sight from where they were.

Viceroy brought a button device out of his pocket and pressed down on it firmly. A sudden, melodramatic howling filled the night. Let no one say Viceroy wasn't a drama king when push came to shove, and this in his mind was definitely a shove. The dog-bots appeared seemingly out of nowhere, coming upon the empty firehouse with vigor. Viceroy watched the Ninja's wide eyes follow them. The dogs crashed through the wall with ease and began tearing apart whatever was within—equipment, the firemen's sliding pole, everything. All in a day's work.

The Ninja of Norrisville really was an intriguing individual. The look on what was visible of his face almost resembled the kind of naïve shock only a child could experience, but despite conspiracy theorists Viceroy knew the truth: this man before him was no doubt a _man_, with eight hundred years of knowledge in his arsenal. It was at that exact moment which Viceroy thought this that the Ninja manifested a sword out of thin air and sawed through the cords binding him like a hot knife through butter.

That thing was quite sharp. Bravado leaving him, Viceroy practically lurched backwards. No way was he risking his neck further. He wasn't entirely sure that the Ninja would ever willingly hurt a human, but he wasn't going to take any chances, especially since he was the Ninja's enemy. Yes, the superhero had saved his life before, but…no chances. Hannibal seemed to be thinking along the same lines. The two of them bolted for the limousine in unison. To an outsider and very possibly the Ninja, the act might have seemed cowardly. Viceroy didn't care.

"Drive!" McFist barked at the robo-ape at the steering wheel once both were inside the vehicle.

"Yes, sir." It replied in monotone.

The limo bumped the curb harshly and they were rocked in their seats as the car turned around, heading in the opposite direction of the Ninja. The Ninja would be busy all night, taking out robot dog after robot dog. No sleep. With any luck he'd be exhausted come sunrise, too tired to fight back. It was a flimsy plot, but it was a plot. Like all the other ones they'd conjured within the past three years. The Sorcerer had grown fed up with Viceroy and McFist the first year. Still, what other options did the monstrous being have? Thought Viceroy. His schemes seemed to work as often as theirs did, and that was never. He made a mental note not to say that to the Sorcerer's face.

"Geez, what brought on _his_ attitude?" McFist wondered aloud.

Viceroy supplied, "The fact we're trying to destroy him?"

"Oh, yeah, right."

* * *

Inside McFist's pyramid building on the highest story, a conversation was being held. "How many do we have left?"

"Dozens," Viceroy answered, "Where the Ninja rips apart one dog, two more will appear. A canine hydra, in a sense."

"Perfect." McFist said, for the sake of his own ego more than anything else. He was pleased. This plan was working better than any of the others they'd tried to accomplish in the past so far. What stupid failures those had been. Things were looking up. Although, it wouldn't be unlike the Ninja to suddenly burst into the middle of it all with a miraculous wrench in the planning like he did numerous times before. Hannibal wondered where he got that kind of knowledge, then felt almost foolish. The guy was a ninja. Having tricks up his sleeve was a no-brainer. Nonetheless it only made the hatred in Hannibal burn ever brighter. What he wouldn't give to see that excessively virtuous superhero wrung up like a—

An alarm went off. Oh. McFist straightened in his seat. Time for a _chat_. He could see Viceroy tense subtly. He could understand why. The Sorcerer wasn't an easy person—thing—to speak with. This would have to be played carefully. Hannibal was a businessman, he knew how to handle these things, even if he did get nervous at times. He didn't want to admit that sometimes he was outright fearful. No self-respecting man in their right mind would admit to that, especially not to one of the most powerful beings on the planet. In the center of the room greenness arose and before Hannibal knew it he was staring in the face of the would-be conqueror of Earth; the Sorcerer.

"_Well?_" The lecherous voice echoed ominously.

Hannibal cleared his throat, "Cutting to the chase, the Ninja's figured out our plan, but that's not going to st—"

"_Again?!_"

The rich man suppressed a flinch. "Yes, well, like I was saying, his just _knowing_ won't keep the plan from—"

Unbeknownst to Hannibal, the Sorcerer was secretly reveling in his newfound surge of sheer power. Just a little more, the monstrous creature thought, and he would be able to break free. However, that didn't mean he couldn't keep McFist, and thus the Ninja, on their toes. He shot out a magical hand to wrap his fingers around McFist's head.

"You listen to me, ignorant half-wit! Three years now have I watched you fumble time and time again, but no longer!" The ghastly digits nearly crushing Hannibal's skull stunk to high heaven, the blond man gagged against the Sorcerer's palm. "You want power? Very well. This is your _last chance_." Something started happening. "You shall have _all_ the power!" Green and red dark gasses swirled around Hannibal in a hellish whirl, who cried out as his body _contorted_ unnaturally, flab dissolving and becoming rock-like muscle. The Sorcerer drew away, pleased with his work. Hannibal fell to the ground, immobile for several long heartbeats before sitting up.

His face was more defined, chiseled. He stared at himself. His arms bulged through his brown suit, which was suddenly too small for him, "What in the hell did you do to me?"

Viceroy watched the entire thing with bated breath.

The Sorcerer laughed, "What you always wanted, Hannibal McFist! I gave you the one thing you desire most: the ability to destroy the Ninja…with your bare hands!"


	6. Chapter 6

McFist stood up, wobbly, quickly regaining his balance. His head swam. The evil magic coursing through him was disorienting. He took deep breaths; walked to the door of his office. Tore it off its hinges when he tried to open it. He stared at it in his hand and dropped it. It clattered noisily.

As if in a trance he continued walking to the elevator. He'd completely forgotten about Viceroy by this point, still standing in his office with the Sorcerer, shell-shocked at what he was witnessing. Once in the elevator he pushed the buttons too hard and broke them. No matter. He'd pressed the ground level button and the elevator was moving anyway. He ignored his secretaries when he stepped out the elevator and marched outside. The fresh air of the evening hit his face and he filled his lungs with it. Then, he started to _run_. Too fast—he grabbed the corner of a building to swing around it, ended up ripping a chunk of brick. He crushed it, it turned to smaller pieces and dust, falling from his fingers.

He guffawed. "_Ninja!_ Where are you? Come out and _play!_"

* * *

It was well past three in the afternoon. Randy was exhausted. His mom was surely wondering where in god's name he was, and these robo-dogs would _not stop coming_. He just wanted to go home. He couldn't. Things would go to hell if he gave up now. There had been plans by his archenemies before, and he'd always managed to stop them. He could now. Couldn't he? Of course he would…he chuffed inside the Mask. Huffed. Hell, he was panting, lungs gasping for air in result of his acrobatics. He was so tired of fighting these damn _dogs_. But it was one after the other, there didn't seem to be an end to the things.

If one got its limbs chopped off another came tearing down the street howling murder. Viceroy really put his back into these ones. Ten or so minutes after thinking that, Randy shoved his katana into the chest of a robot dog, watching it collapse on itself. Each one seemed to have its A.I. center located in a different region of its 'body,' and apparently he'd happened to hit dead center on this one in particular. A pause passed, there was a…lull? Shouldn't more be coming now? He didn't _want_ more, but he had horrible luck—

"_YOU!_"

The guttural scream resounded and could have been heard from two blocks away. Literally. It was almost supersonic. Randy whirled on his heel to face the source…and found it approaching him, fast. It was a blur of brown suit and blond hair. He was barreled over, grunting as Hannibal McFist rammed into him full force. He kicked instinctively to get the man off of him as soon as he quit being dazed, slowly realizing who was staring him in the eye with enough hate it could have melted titanium. The Mask hid his gaping expression.

He made a strangled noise as McFist's arm shot out and grabbed Randy by the neck with ease, lifting him above the ground. Randy was losing his head.

"See me now, Ninja?"

Randy was too stunned to respond.

"Thanks to the Sorcerer, I can finally get my revenge on you."

The Sorcerer?

The _Sorcerer_ did this? But—that meant—

* * *

This was it. The last confrontation between Hannibal McFist and the Ninja that there would ever be. With inhuman strength, Hannibal squeezed down on the Ninja's neck, not with all his might, he wanted the righteous rat bastard to live a little longer yet. If Hannibal had anything to say about it, the Ninja would be dead before he hit the ground when Hannibal inevitably tossed him aside. The Ninja's head blocked the sun from Hannibal's standpoint, creating an eclipse effect, and the billionaire savored the sound of the Ninja's choking. He didn't gloat, not aloud that was, taking his time watching his adversary squirm.

Where was the Ninja of Norrisville's nobility and honor now? When the townspeople found his body lying broken and unmasked in the streets, they'd despair, more than they already were, in all this chaos. The Sorcerer gave him _all_ the powers. That's what he'd claimed, anyway, and Hannibal? He was not complaining. McFist had everything he'd ever wanted, it was just time to seal the deal. The world would go to hell, and he didn't give a damn, he had all the resources in that doomed planet, he'd be fine, as well would his wife and stepson. Viceroy and his mother could stick around if they wanted, the mad scientist deserved his fair share of credit. Hannibal was not usually so sharing, but he was staring down the apocalypse. Certain things needed to be considered. Like starting it.

The Ninja's hands wrenched against Hannibal's arms, trying in vain to free himself. It was pathetic. Hannibal couldn't help but imagine how it must feel like for the hero. Eight hundred years' worth of doing the exact same thing, never wavering. It must be a shock to lose so suddenly, so unexpectedly. It must be a practically unnatural experience, as losing had been for Hannibal in the beginning, nearly three years ago.

Before his secret campaign against the Ninja, he'd always gotten everything he desired, without fail. He worked hard to be that way, expected success. Then the Ninja came into the picture with every ounce of his smug arrogance. Who knew pitch black eyes with nothing except for luminescent green swirls for irises could be so expressive. There was no mistaking it, the disapproving looks and the haughty attitude. When Hannibal had fumed about it to Viceroy the other man pierced him with the strangest stare. As if Hannibal wasn't one to talk.

He snorted at the memory.

It only took his prosthetic arm to wrap around the Ninja's throat.

He used his organic arm to yank at the mask. It hissed, sizzled and seethed, burning his palm. He bared his teeth. He was not going to give up because of a piece of clothing. It turned out that removing the mask required tremendous effort. No matter, he had tremendous power. The Ninja did his best to turn his head away, visibly panicking, none of it did any good. Hannibal smirked as the deep voice he'd heard on rare occasions shouted, "No!" A long, suspenseful moment later of pulling, _pulling_, it _came off_.

Hannibal threw the mask on the ground.

Dark sclera was replaced with white, swirls by blueness, pupils large and round and terrified—no, now _enraged_.

Wild purple hair. Caucasian. Not...Asian...

...Young...

A boy.

Familiar?

Hannibal's heart thudded. He didn't even breathe. His grip loosened.

A mistake. There was a pregnant pause. What began as a young man's yell transformed into a roar, a battle cry. Knuckles swung viciously and preternaturally fast to collide with his cheek, he hardly felt it.

"Who are you?"

The young man concealed none of his emotions. Outrage, disbelief, steeliness, hatred. He didn't hesitate, "_Fuck you!_" It was a very un-Ninja thing to hear, but here he was, spitting curse words like a spurned teenaged brat.

Something broke inside Hannibal. He dropped the N—the—_boy_ onto the ground, slammed a foot on his goddamned chest to keep him there, just barely blocking a sharp kick. Pure insolence glared up at him, and Hannibal all but screamed into his face, "No, _fuck you!_ There is no way I have been dealing with some asshole kid all this time! I refuse to...I...!"

The boy huffed a laugh, pale yet red-faced with exertion, white teeth displayed in what was certainly not a smile, "Are you serious? Go screw yourself, McFist." He reached for the mask splayed on the ground. He snatched it up and held it closely to himself.

Memories flashed in Hannibal's mind, of previous encounters, such as the incident Hannibal started bragging too early about his would-be victory, and the Ninja snapped for silence. It had been a whip crack, when all along it had just been a child playing grown-up. The revelation humiliated Hannibal more than anything else at that moment.

"_Shut UP!_"

Hannibal, practically spitting, charged at the boy, putting all of his weight into it—only to be sidestepped and crash into a wall of a building, going straight through. The way he did this was such that the entire ceiling came down on him. He coughed horrendously as debris filled his mouth and nose. He was trapped beneath it all. If he would escape, he'd have to dig his way out.


End file.
